When The Wrong Is Right
by starrysummernights
Summary: Sherlock had estimated it would take Mycroft an entire day to figure out what had happened between he and John. A lack of cameras in the flat combined with a crisis in the Middle East insured that the British Government would be too busy to take immediate notice of the dalliances of his little brother. Holmescest. Omegaverse. Please read the AN inside.
1. Chapter 1

**PLEASE NOTE: This is Omegaverse. This is Holmescest. This will be filthy. If none of that appeals to you please read no further- I will see you next time I update another of my stories. I won't be offended, I promise.  
**

**If any of that does appeal to you, then by all means read on! :D**

**There will never, ever, ever be non-con in my Omegaverse.**

**Flashbacks are written in **_italics._

* * *

Sherlock had estimated it would take Mycroft an entire day to figure out what had happened between him and John. A lack of cameras in the flat combined with a crisis in the Middle East insured that the British Government would be too busy to take immediate notice of the dalliances of his little brother.

As it was, Mycroft arrived at 221B the morning after the fact, a whole twelve hours ahead of schedule, surprising Sherlock as he sat at the kitchen table, working on his latest experiment.

Looking back, Sherlock knew he should have expected such a thing from Mycroft. It was a game between them, one or the other always struggling to come out on top, both intellectually and physically. This time, Sherlock thought, smirking as he heard the downstairs door close and the distinctive, muted tread of his brother's feet on the stairs, _he_ had won. He would pretend, let Mycroft think he was the superior one, but it would be just a guise. Sherlock had come out on top this time.

The door behind Sherlock opened and there was a noticeable, distinct silence, Mycroft pausing in the doorway, taking in the sight of his little brother. Sherlock could feel his eyes raking over his body and his heart jumped, tripping over in his chest, knowing what Mycroft was seeing.

"_Sherlock…." John eyes were wide, staring up at him in utter confusion. His hands, though, gripped Sherlock's thighs where they were spread to either side of John's lap, thumbs smoothing over the fabric of Sherlock's trousers. "Where is this coming from?"_

"_I want you." Sherlock murmured, casting his eyes down, coquettish, knowing how to appeal to John and his protective instincts, knowing what John wanted: a shy, unsure Omega Sherlock in need of his big, strong Alpha. It was too easy._

"_You want me?" Blatant suspicion tempered with equally blatant desire. John wanted him. Of course he did. John's pupils were huge, his pulse jumping at the side of his neck, and if Sherlock squirmed slightly in John's lap there would be a noticeable erection pressing against his arse. He squirmed. John gasped and his hands spasmed where they held Sherlock. Alphas were always so easy._

"_Yes." He kept his voice low, soft. _

"_Sherlock…" John inhaled, testing the air, scenting, trying to make sure Sherlock wasn't-_

"_It's not my heat, John." Sherlock said, a bit agitatedly. He reeled himself back in. "That's not due for another few weeks." Two weeks, to be precise, and if he played everything right he would get what he wanted when the time came. "I want you." Sherlock flicked a glance up at John, biting his lip. "Please?"_

"_Oh." John took a shaky, gasping breath. "Oh, god yes." He surged up, gently cupping Sherlock's cheek and bringing his face down to press a soft kiss against his lips._

Sherlock kept his eyes on the table, his hands moving, but his mind was no longer focused on the task in front of him. He couldn't hear anything behind him. No rustle of bespoke suit. No tap of umbrella. Not even a sigh. It was completely silent.

Sherlock swallowed, throat thick and clogged with premature arousal, and it sounded loud in the deathly hush of the flat.

"I can still smell him on you." Mycroft stated, his voice calm, perfectly moderated, giving no indication to the rage he had to be feeling.

Sherlock hadn't showered. After. He'd also purposefully slept near John all night, letting the Alpha cuddle against him protectively to make sure John's scent permeated his hair and skin. He'd even rolled in the bed after John had left for work to refresh the odor, rubbing the scent of their coupling- semen and lubrication and sweat- onto his skin and clothes. He was even still wearing his clothes from last night, the same clothes John had peeled from his body oh-so-carefully before laying him out on his bed.

"I trust you enjoyed yourself." Mycroft's voice was still eerily calm. He could have been talking about the weather, not the defiling of his little Omega brother at the hands of his Alpha flatmate.

"Of course." Sherlock replied flippantly, swiveling in his chair to face his brother, defiant smirk firmly in place.

Mycroft's eyes dropped to the purpling bruise which decorated the side of Sherlock's neck- just as Sherlock had wanted him to- and he watched the play of emotions across Mycroft's face. Shock. Hurt. The absolute _anger_ before Mycroft tamped down on it.

Sherlock was having none of that.

He tilted his head to the side- the barest motion possible in order to make it look natural, otherwise Mycroft would realize what he was doing- baring his neck and revealing the bruises which were partially hidden beneath the collar of his dressing gown.

Mycroft took a sharp breath at the sight. His eyes traced the contours of the bruises decorating Sherlock's neck, livid against the pale whiteness of his skin. His jaw tightened, eyes flashing with rage and his hand tightened on the handle of his umbrella.

"John was very…_thorough_." Sherlock purred, eyes half-lidded as if remembering the pleasures of last night.

Mycroft, who had still been frozen in the doorway, indecision warring with his rage, snapped. One- two- three quick strides across the kitchen and he dropped his umbrella, letting it clatter noisily to the floor, and threaded his fingers through Sherlock's curls. He yanked, forcing his little brother's head back at a sharp angle, baring his throat for his perusal.

Sherlock let Mycroft manhandle him, going lax against his brother- he knew Mycroft would never hurt him no matter how angry he was- hands coming up to clutch at the front of Mycroft's suit. He shuddered at the first touch of Mycroft's fingers against his neck, touching his bruises. Deducing when they had happened, at what angle John had been to suck and bite such a pattern on Sherlock's pale throat. Committing them to memory. Each and every one.

"Ah!" Sherlock jerked in surprise and pain when Mycroft mercilessly pressed down on one of the bigger bruises. He remembered that one. John had been buried in his arse, cock throbbing hotly, when he'd bitten Sherlock's neck, thrusting in shallow, quick movements, unwilling to let go. Sherlock hadn't been concerned. A bond could only be made when an Omega was in heat. He'd arched back against John and let him do as he pleased.

"It seems you enjoyed yourself last night, brother _mine_." Mycroft grated out from behind grit teeth, not releasing his grip on Sherlock, thumb still pressing against the mark.

Sherlock's mouth went dry. Mine. Mine. Mine. The word sent a pleasant shudder down his spine.

Had Mycroft worked it out? Finally? Would he be angry? Would he-

It seemed Mycroft hadn't figured out Sherlock's plan. He loosened his grip, hands trailing over Sherlock's cheeks as he released him and stepped back, visibly restraining himself and the possessive, Alpha emotions which had surged to the fore at seeing _his_ Omega being marked by another Alpha. A rival Alpha.

Except Sherlock _wasn't_ his Omega. That was the whole point. The whole reason Sherlock had had sex with John and let him- no, _encouraged_ him- to mark his entire body. He wanted Mycroft angry, angry enough to mark him, replace John's bites with his own, and finally- finally- _finally_ bond with him.

The thought of his brother bonding with him- after all these years- made Sherlock's heart leap with longing and he had to work to school his features and not let it show.

Ever since Sherlock had experienced his first heat, he'd shared them with Mycroft. The first time had been an accident. At least, that was what Mycroft said. Sherlock wasn't so sure but he had a frustratingly vague idea of that incident. His first heat had been…overwhelming. Almost painful. All he remembered was making his way, in the dark of night, to his older brother's bedroom, climbing into bed, and pressing kisses against a very surprised Mycroft's lips. And Mycroft, strong, _wonderful_ smelling Mycroft, had held Sherlock, comforted him, and been there in the most fundamental way when Sherlock needed him.

"It's wrong, Sherlock." Mycroft had said, his fingers still caressing Sherlock's back as they lay tangled together. "I hardly need to tell you exactly how wrong it is. This…was a mistake and I won't allow it to happen again."

Sherlock, who had been floating on a cloud of endorphins, pheromones, and a whole host of other pleasure chemicals, had been hurt. Deeply so. What they had shared hadn't been wrong. It couldn't be wrong. And for Mycroft to say it had been… Sherlock had shoved his brother away, ordered him out of his own room, and refused to speak to him for the next few months. His heart had ached. It'd been intolerable.

When Sherlock's next heat had happened, he'd tried to make do with the useless toys he'd purchased, determined not to let his brother know how much he wanted him. Even then, in the middle of a mindboggling heat, the memory of what Mycroft had said, his rejection, stung.

None of the toys had brought Sherlock any relief, though, and he'd given in to the urge he'd been fighting for months and called his brother.

"No, Sherlock." Mycroft's voice had been stern, implacable. "I will never do that again. Ever." He'd hung up on Sherlock when Sherlock had tried fake crying to get Mycroft to relent. It hadn't been his best performance anyway.

The next day, the second day of Sherlock's heat, the tears hadn't been faked. He'd called Mycroft, writhing on his sheets, unable to function, unable to think, needing…needing…needing…

"Please, My-My-Mycroft." Sherlock would later be ashamed of himself, at his total lack of control, the ugly sobs wracking his body as he shivered on his soaked sheets. In that moment he hadn't been able to care. "Please- please! I n-n-n-need you. Mycroft. Please!"

"Sherlock. It's wrong." Mycroft's voice had been agonized. He'd sounded almost in tears himself. "I can't."

"I don't care." Sherlock sobbed, voice cracking, rubbing himself ineffectually against the sheets. "I only want you. Mycroft. You. Please. You." He'd been terrified Mycroft would hang up on him again and leave him to suffer through the rest of his heat alone. "Please. Mycroft." Sherlock choked, all embarrassment melting away under the onslaught of his heat. "I w-wanted you before…before my heats. I promise. I swear. That's why I…I went to you. That night. I wanted you. _Please_."

The line had gone dead and Sherlock had wailed, throwing the phone across the room, flinging himself against the bed and kicking out, throwing a tantrum like a child.

Mycroft had arrived less than an hour later, much to Sherlock's relief, and hadn't left Sherlock's side for the next few days, catering to his every pleasure again and again.

Ever since, Mycroft had been the one to help Sherlock through his heats. Every three months, Sherlock packed a bag and stayed at Mycroft's house when his heats came, spending the time being fucked and pleasured until he couldn't remember his own name. He lived for those few days when he had Mycroft all to himself, had Mycroft's undivided attention.

Outside of Sherlock's heats, he and Mycroft never talked about it. Sherlock wouldn't have cared but Mycroft was obviously still ashamed of what they did and probably wanted to forget it even happened. He told Sherlock it was wrong every time. It never prevented him from doing it again. And again. And again.

Sherlock knew what Mycroft was waiting for: He expected Sherlock to find a nice, interesting Alpha, bond with him, and settle down. He had refused to bond with his little brother, explaining that Sherlock would want someone else 'when he came to his senses.' He _had_ to want someone else, Mycroft said, his voice tinged with desperation and dread.

It was ridiculous. Sherlock knew it. Mycroft himself knew it if he would stop being an arse long enough to realize.

Sherlock didn't want anyone but Mycroft.

And he was going to get what he wanted.

Mycroft stepped away from Sherlock, eyes going cold and shuttered. "I assume you will spend your next heat here in the flat with Doctor Watson then."

Sherlock shrugged and scooted forward in his chair, giving an exaggerated wince to watch Mycroft's face darken in anger. It was all for show. He wasn't the least bit sore. John had used a frankly ridiculous amount of lube last night.

"_Are you sure you're not in heat?" John asked, carefully thrusting a single finger in and out of Sherlock's slightly wet hole. _

_Sherlock nodded, his curls rasping against the pillow. "Yes. I…I always lubricate a little when it's close.."_

_Which was true. He did, a perk of being an Omega. John, though, hadn't trusted it and had used almost half the bottle prepping Sherlock before he pressed himself inside Sherlock's body._

"More than likely." Sherlock said, just to irritate his brother. "John is a very _attentive_ Alpha."

That was a low-blow and Sherlock knew it. Mycroft was attentive…during Sherlock's heats. But he wanted more than that, had wanted more than that for years, and he was determined to get it. Even if he had to be ruthless in the process.

The statement hit its mark. Mycroft rocked back on his heels, eyebrows soaring up to his hairline. It was the biggest emotional response Sherlock had ever got from his brother and he felt a deep satisfaction at finally eliciting it.

"I'm sure when we're bonded…" Sherlock sighed, fingering the bruises on his neck contemplatively. "When we're bonded John will be even more attentive. _He_ obviously _wants_ me."

Mycroft's throat bobbed as he swallowed, eyes watching Sherlock trace the bruise that sat just where a bond bite would be, at the base of his throat, slightly to the back of his neck.

"He was desperate for me." Sherlock continued, ignoring Mycroft, a dreamy smile working its way onto his face. "I didn't know I could feel pleasure like that outside of my heats but…" He shook his head, moving in for the kill. "I don't think I've ever came so hard before. John was _amazing_."

He'd meant to say more, tell Mycroft how many times he'd came, exactly how John had sucked his cock, made his eyes roll back in his head, possibly told him John was bigger if he were feeling _really_ daring-

But Mycroft lunged forward and kissed him, silencing him, his tongue invading Sherlock's mouth, sweeping inside proprietarily and rubbing against his own. Sherlock struggled, shoving at him, trying to get away, putting up a wonderful mock fight to bring out the Alpha side Mycroft usually kept hidden.

Mycroft growled against his lips and Sherlock wanted to laugh. Really, this was almost too easy.

Mycroft's hands came up, gripping Sherlock's biceps in a strong, implacable grip, pulling Sherlock up and against him. Sherlock kept fighting, twisting his head to the side to avoid Mycroft's kiss and Mycroft's lips moved down the column of his neck and he inhaled, another growl escaping at the scent of John covering Sherlock.

"Wh-what are you doing?" Sherlock asked shakily, still tense against Mycroft. He wondered if he were playing up the whole "defenseless Omega" bit too much…but when Mycroft started scenting him, running his nose up and down at the juncture of Sherlock's neck and shoulder, he decided he was doing it just right.

"His scent is all over you." Mycroft hissed, fingers digging into Sherlock's arms even tighter. "I can smell him…his scent…his…"

Mycroft let go of Sherlock so quickly the Omega stumbled forward before he caught himself, eyes wide at seeing Mycroft across the room from him, taking in deep, steadying breaths through his mouth. As if that would reduce the scent Sherlock knew permeated the flat.

Sherlock smirked. He had Mycroft right where he wanted him. He shed his dressing gown and stripped off his shirt. The bruises went all the way down his body- marks John had sucked and bit onto his skin, fingerprints at his hips where John had held him too hard at the end as their pleasure peaked. Mycroft's eyes drank it all in and Sherlock hooked his fingers in the waistband of his pants and let them drop to the floor, baring himself totally for Mycroft. He almost did a twirl to let Mycroft see it all, really take in the evidence of what he'd done last night, John's prints all over his body- but it was already more than enough.

Mycroft- wonderful, powerful, handsome, _furious_ Mycroft- was on him.


	2. Chapter 2

**I was actually surprised that I didn't lose every single follower I had with this fic. That being said- thanks for the support this story has garnered. I hope you enjoy this latest chapter. There should be two more after this one. Thanks!**

* * *

Mycroft thought he'd been adequately prepared to visit Sherlock the morning after his brother had had sex with his flatmate. He'd thought, mistakenly, that he was in control of himself.

Calm.

Rational.

Completely over the initial fury he'd felt when he first realized what had happened between his impulsive, childish, and utterly _foolish_ Omega brother and his longtime Alpha flatmate.

Mycroft's vision had whited out at the edges as he silently stared at the black-and-white video footage of 221B's sitting room. Sherlock straddling John's lap. Crawling all over him as they kissed. John running his hands through Sherlock's curls and tipping his head to the side, as if he had all the right in the world to do so. To be touching what unequivocally belonged to Mycroft. John almost completely undressing Sherlock, running his hands over the bare expanse of Sherlock's back. Grabbing two handfuls of Sherlock's arse. Groping and grinding together before peeling themselves apart and staggering up the stairs.

There were no cameras in John's bedroom, but none were needed. It was easy enough to realize what was about to happen.

Mycroft had been enraged.

Livid.

It had taken all of his immense, hard-earned self-control not to immediately go to 221B, bodily drag Sherlock out of John Watson's bed, arrange for the interloping Alpha to conveniently disappear, and then erase all traces of John from Sherlock's body before claiming him as _his_.

Mycroft hadn't given in to such a base, ridiculous reaction, though. He'd stopped the video playback, which had shown a tellingly empty sitting room, Sherlock's pajama pants and dressing gown discarded beside John's armchair. He'd turned his head away from the offending images and closed his eyes. Unclenched his fists from their white-knuckled grip on his chair arms and taken a few minutes to breathe and gain control himself. It had been harder than it should have been.

Mycroft had sat alone in his office for long minutes and carefully _not_ thought of what was being done to his brother halfway across London.

Instead, he told himself he was relieved. _Thankful_ that Sherlock had finally found someone, that Sherlock had moved on and no longer needed the destructive, erroneous relationship the two of them had shared for most of their adult lives. It was wonderful. Perfect. Ideal. He was happy for Sherlock. Happy for John.

Mycroft sternly told that to the sick, jealous roiling in his gut, the almost impossible to contain urge to restate his claim, to mark Sherlock and bond with him so no other Alpha could-

Stop it, he'd firmly ordered himself. Just. Stop. It. Despite Sherlock's childish attitude, his brother was actually a grown man and he was entitled to choose with whom he wanted to sleep with. Mycroft had no say in the matter, just as it should be. Even if said person person happened to be an ex-army Alpha with homicidal tendencies.

It was none of Mycroft's business.

Except…the gnawing worry refused to go away.

Mycroft had screened John Watson personally, interviewed the cheeky bastard himself, and carefully monitored his behavior towards Sherlock with a keen eye. John Watson _seemed_ to be a good man, gentle and kind, but even Alphas could sometimes have their moments and the idea of Sherlock being inadvertently injured at the hands of someone he trusted, someone he had given himself to and expected to protect him, was…repellent.

Mycroft had found himself unable to stay away from 221B.

He'd told himself it was simply because he was worried for Sherlock and nothing else. He wanted to check on his brother and ascertain his well-being, make sure he wasn't injured. Sherlock had never been with another Alpha before- a few Beta's here and there over the years, which Mycroft hadn't been too concerned about- but never an Alpha. And Alphas could be…well. Overwhelming. Demanding. Fierce and territorial. Not all of them were as nice or respectful as Mycroft were. Some of them liked to give in to their baser instincts when presented with an Omega, especially one as beautiful as Sherlock, and it was entirely possible John Watson was one of those Alphas.

It was natural, then, to come to 221B and check on Sherlock. Make sure he was ok, that he was uninjured. Make sure he was fully aware of the situation he was placing himself in and all the implications thereof. That he hadn't been tricked or coerced into it.

If everything was fine and aboveboard, Mycroft told himself as his car pulled to a stop in front of Sherlock's flat, he would respect Sherlock's wishes and would bow out, remove himself gracefully from a situation he never should have been in in the first place. It was a simple matter.

Mycroft had been wrong.

Nothing could have prepared him for the way he felt seeing his brother- _his_ Omega, his mind had screamed at him- sitting there, bold as brass, smelling of John Watson, marked hither and yon… Mycroft had snapped.

* * *

Sherlock thought, for one dizzying moment, that Mycroft was going to fuck him right there, right in the middle of the sitting room. Perhaps on the carpet. He didn't think the hardwood floor would be very conducive to a good shag and he was prepared, as Mycroft dragged his lips over Sherlock's neck, to fight him on it should his brother insist.

Mycroft, though, suddenly pulled away, leaving Sherlock panting and pressed against the wall. His eyes raked down Sherlock's nude body and his lips twisted into a disgusted expression before his hand closed around Sherlock's upper arm and he pulled him down the hall.

Ah, so it was to be the bedroom then, Sherlock realized, letting Mycroft march him down the hallway. A proper bed. He wondered how Mycroft would take him. Hard and fast? Or slow and sensual? They'd never had sex outside of Sherlock's heats and Sherlock was unashamedly curious.

During his heats, he was always so preoccupied with assuaging the horrible, aching _need_, of getting off, of being knotted, that he only had blurry, indistinct ideas of how Mycroft acted. His mind, overwhelmed, never seemed able to latch into the information, no matter how sternly he instructed it to beforehand. Sherlock's entire body was thrumming with arousal and eagerness. He wanted to know how Mycroft acted when there weren't any pheromones and scents and heat and it was just them. Just the two of them.

Mycroft, however, had a different plan.

He stopped before they reached Sherlock's open bedroom door and twisted the handle on the loo door, pulling Sherlock inside the small room before closing and locking the door behind them. He steered Sherlock toward the shower and mercilessly turned on the water.

Sherlock yelped at the first icy cold spray on his exposed skin, easily twisting away from Mycroft's grip and scurrying to the back of the shower to escape the freezing water. He gave Mycroft a highly offended glare as his brother adjusted the temperature and then fixed Sherlock with his own implacable stare.

"Wash." He commanded and something in Sherlock's chest purred at being able to reduce the always-loquacious Mycroft to one-syllable directives. And most people thought Alphas were the superior ones. Idiots.

"Why do I need to wash?" Sherlock needled him, eyes wide and innocent, letting the warm water sluice down his body in enticing rivulets. He knew how he looked, that Mycroft found him attractive even when he wasn't in heat, and he used it to his advantage. He wondered how long it would take before Mycroft stripped off his carefully starched and proper clothes, climbed in the shower, and washed Sherlock himself.

The thought was incredibly too delicious- Mycroft's hands all over him, touches easily turning into caresses, lingering too long over certain aspects of Sherlock's body... Sherlock could feel his cock, which had abruptly wilted under the onslaught of the cold water, hardening from the thought and it took all his self-control to keep his features placid and serene.

Mycroft's face darkened even further and he gave Sherlock a no-nonsense look, his jaw tightening in anger and annoyance. They stared at each other, the only sounds in the tiny loo the patter of water hitting the tiles. Steam rose up between them and Sherlock could feel his hair frizzing, his curls wilting in the humid air. He knew it wasn't an attractive look- it made him look like a deranged dandelion- and so he gave in to Mycroft's demand, a small smile playing around his lips as he did so.

He washed his hair first- a necessity as it continued to unattractively frizz. He was trying to seduce Mycroft, not give him a reason to laugh.

Tipping his head back under the warm spray, Sherlock closed his eyes, relishing the way the position exposed his throat and all the wonderfully useful bruises John had sucked onto his skin the previous night. He heard a faint, bitten off growl from Mycroft and cracked open one eye to check- but his brother was still firmly in control of himself. Pity.

Sherlock moaned as he soaped up his hair, keeping his eyes closed and his mouth open just the tiniest bit as if the pleasure was just so…incredibly…_good_. He felt like an idiot. He'd never been good at this, not that he'd had much practice. Hair was just hair. Washing it wasn't the most seductive thing he could do. But, as he rinsed out his curls and pushed the dripping strands back from his face, he wasn't disheartened. He had other plans- and he'd given them a lot of thought.

Sherlock had never been given the opportunity to properly seduce Mycroft before. All their encounters had taken place in the midst of Sherlock's heats, when he was mindless and already needy and his pheremones and scent produced a physical reaction from Mycroft. Mycroft's atttraction to Sherlock's body didn't necessarily even need to be a factor in Mycroft's arousal when Sherlock was in heat. And his brother was always so circumspect when Sherlock wasn't in heat that it was enough to almost make Sherlock believe Mycroft felt nothing for him.

That bothered Sherlock. Incessently.

He was planning to change that. He knew Mycroft wanted him, no matter how much his brother denied it. And he was going to prove it.

Lathering up his loofa, he gave Mycroft another seductive look before starting on his arms, stretching them to their fullest extent before dragging the loofa along their length, trailing soap bubbles and humming in his throat as if it were the best, most luxurious feeling in the world.

There wasn't even a twitch from Mycroft in response.

Sherlock wasn't discouraged.

The rough texture of the loofa hurt his already sensitive neck, scraping along the bruises and bringing old hurts stinging into life again- but Sherlock ignored the twinges and rolled his head back, showing off the marks to their full advantage as he trailed the loofa around the column of his throat, the soap bubbles tickling as they trickled down over his collarbone. He gingerly fingered the bruises with his free hand, biting his lips, whimpering just the slightest.

If Mycroft had been angry earlier, now he looked murderous. His chest was rapidly rising up and down, his cheeks flushed from the heat of the shower and the pure fury he was feeling. Alphas, Sherlock thought smugly.

Sherlock slowly and deliberately swiped the loofa across his chest. He didn't dare tweak his nipples- that seemed too obvious- but he dragged his thumbnail across first one….then the other, gasping and throwing his head back, allowing his eyes to go half-lidded in pleasure. The satisfying _zing_ raced down his chest, down to his very core, and his cock jerked in response. When he looked at Mycroft through his eyelashes, his brother was flushed, eyes flicking from Sherlock's cock, which had filled out and was more than half hard, to Sherlock's hands still poised over his chest. Mycroft's throat bobbed as he swallowed heavily.

Perfect.

Sherlock skipped over his erection- that could wait until later- and bent, scrubbing his calves before slowly, slowly straightening and trailing the sponge along the inside of his thighs, letting his breath catch at the sensitivity, biting his lip as if to hold in a moan. His cock thickened even further at his daring, knowing Mycroft, already angry, was watching him put on a show and getting angrier by the second because of it. It was a delicious tease and Sherlock was enjoying himself immensely.

He paused for agonizing seconds, drawing out the tension to a delicious peak, before gently caressing his cock with the sponge, squeezing it so more soap bubbles and foam dripped out, slicking the way for his hand to grasp his prick and stroke it.

"Oo-_ooh_." Sherlock let his voice break, his head falling back as his eyes closed as if he were alone, as if he were forgetting the heated presence of his brother, glaring at him from little more than three feet away. "Oh."

He stroked himself languidly, in no real rush to get himself off- that wasn't the point of this- and teased his balls with the edges of the loofa, squirming against the side of the shower. "Oh, _Mycroft_."

That was what did it.

Mycroft exploded into action, seizing the loofa from Sherlock and spinning his brother around, finishing cleaning him, scrubbing over his back and between his buttocks (Sherlock gasped sharply) with deft, precise movements, despite the fact that his hands were shaking and it sounded as if he were about to hyperventilate.

Mycroft didn't even give Sherlock time to dry off before he was pulling him from the loo, dripping water and shivering, into the bedroom. That door too, was closed and locked, and Sherlock was pushed down onto his own bed, Mycroft swarming over him as soon as his head hit the pillow.


End file.
